


The Fraternity of Strangers

by Marta



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Female Protagonist, Friendship, Gen, Vignette, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/pseuds/Marta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn would probably not have been the easiest of patients. A moment from the Houses of Healing. (Also features Lothiriel.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fraternity of Strangers

Lothíriel stood outside the door to Éowyn's chamber, calming her nerves and (she could scarcely admit it even to herself, but it was true) putting off the inevitable. She wasn't properly frightened of going in; while Éowyn could be as foul-tempered as any of the patients she had met here in the Houses of Healing, Lothíriel had grown up with a house full of brothers and did not scare easily. She had survived explosions from Erchirion's rooms, Amrothos's toad set loose in her bed, to say nothing of the sangria incident.

No, Lothíriel knew she could hold her own against whatever might await her on the other side of the door.  Still, she was wise enough to know that some situations required a clear head and even temper. So she straightened her gown, breathed in deeply, and counted backwards in Haradric until at least she felt calm and collected. At last she knocked at the door, but no answer came. She knocked again and heard a low groan through the heavy door.

That did not bode well for this afternoon's visit, but it could not be helped. Normally Eowyn would at least offer her the courtesy of words, for she was a well-bred lady whatever other rumors might be flying around Minas Tirith; she must be particularly miserable today. But Éowyn had recognized Lothíriel's presence, and Lothíriel would not give her the upper hand by lingering longer outside the door. Rather than knock a third time, Lothíriel opened the door and let herself in. Éowyn scowled at her from her place in the bed. "I did not give you leave to enter," she said.

"I gave you the chance," Lothíriel replied. Éowyn did not respond to that, so Lothíriel decided to provoke a reaction. "Horses bray and chickens squawk," she said, "but men are expected to speak in words. If you would be treated as a person free to control her fate, then you should act like one." She and Éowyn often sparred with words like that, and Lothíriel hoped Éowyn knew she meant no disrespect by her harsh words. But Éowyn was so given to melancholy, to long spans of silence when she would just lie in bed staring out her window.

Today, though, her barb did not quite find its target. Éowyn did turn to face her, but her face showed no trace of irritation. It hardly registered any emotion, save perhaps exhaustion. Éowyn did sit upright, though, resting her back against the bed's great headboard, and she looked Lothíriel in the eye. That at least was a start. "You chide me for not acting like a person ought to," Éowyn said, "But as for _choice_ , I cannot see how your braying horse is worse off than me. Back home our fillies had the run of the paddock, yet they were no less prisoners than I am."

As she spoke, Éowyn's eyes narrowed a little, and Lothíriel saw the muscles all along her arms grow taut; it reminded her of nothing so much as her cat back in Dol Amroth, getting ready to pounce. "I can lie abed and count the cracks in the ceiling," Éowyn continued, "or I may sit by the fire with the companions foisted upon me. If I am very good I may walk about the gardens with your cousin and listen to him prattle on. But not too much or for too long, and certainly I may not practice my sword-dance or ride away from these cursed houses. In what ways am I free to choose, milady?"

"You have as much choice as do I," Lothíriel countered. "As does any woman I have known, and many a man as well. And does your penned filly not prefer the paddock to her stall in the stables?" Éowyn looked at her skeptically, and even Lothíriel was not wholly convinced by her argument. If the horse was happy to be out in the open air, it was only because she knew nothing of the freedom of the open plains. Still, she knew that for all too many people and for the daughters of great houses most of all, such freedom was almost always a phantom: sought-after, perhaps, but never obtained. Not knowing what else to say, she added, "Great ladies do not groan at their visitors, as if that would drive them away. Nor do they lay about in their dressing-gowns when they know companions will come to call."

"I do not need lessons on how to be a great lady," Éowyn said. "Certainly not from Southlanders who know nothing of what it means for my people."

"Good manners are the same the world over," she said. But even as the words left her mouth Lothíriel knew them to be a lie. She had learned these last few weeks that Minas Tirith was worlds apart from Dol  Amroth. Back home she might go to the market herself, or claim the kitchens for her own use if the mood to bake something took her. Here, Lothíriel found herself as hemmed in as Éowyn. She could go out, yes, but not unescorted, and her companions looked at her askance whenever she acted in a way that came most naturally to her. So she added, "And if not good manners, then courage and honor stay constant from land to land. Otherwise how could we have alliances, where our peoples depend on each other for our common defense?"

Éowyn looked at her disbelievingly. "You know little of courage," she said. "Neither the thrill of great deeds nor the pain when they are thwarted. You would lecture me on this of all topics?"

Lothíriel bristled at Éowyn's tone, for she sounded sure that she was above and apart all the other women there. For some reason Lothíriel had been tight-lipped about her own life in their daily conversations; the Rohir seemed so sure of herself, and though a part of Lothíriel wanted to make her a friend, Éowyn's pride often grated against her. She reminded her of nothing so much as the squires training to become Swan Knights, so sure of their prowess before they ever saw their first battle. Lothíriel knew that only experience – only the plain light of truth – could cure them of that pride. Could the same work with Éowyn? It was worth a try, at least.

"I cannot speak to the thrill of great deeds," Lothíriel admitted. " _I_ am not the one who rode hundreds of miles into battle, or who slew the foul Nazgûl; you have me beat there. But of great deeds thwarted? I suspect I know more than you give me credit for, on that count." How to say this so it didn't sound as a challenge to Éowyn? She didn't want to engage her in a game of _your-lot-is-worse-than-mine_ , though in some ways she thought she might win such a contest. She supposed the beginning was as good a starting-point as any.

"I spoke with Elfhelm before he rode East with the Host," she  said. "I know how you were left behind in Dunharrow, and I can well imagine how long those nights must have seemed as you waited there for news from Helm's Deep." Éowyn opened her mouth as if to speak, but Lothíriel forestalled her. "I understand because I too was left behind. _My_ father left me in Dol Amroth while my brothers rode north, and he only sent for me when the great battle here was over and won. Then he and my brothers rode off – _again._ They feared for my safety at home, so they called me here, but there is little enough I can do. I come to these houses day after day so I might be of some use. I have no great skill at healing, but bread-baking and clothes-washing are thought beyond a lord's daughter like myself. So I sit by the beds of those who proved themselves in battle. I tell them stories and listen to their tales of home, and write letters to those they left behind. It is but a token. A pittance. But it seems to be the only thing I can give; or at least the only thing that is required of me."

Looking down at her hands, her silver swan-ring caught her attention. She held out her hand to show it to Éowyn. "My brothers and father and I all have a ring like this. In Dol Amroth it is recognized as the symbol of our house. Not as a signet; no, for us its worth comes more from sentiment than from any true authority it might represent. I never thought much on it until these last few weeks. But now, with them so far away, I cannot help wondering why I must stay behind."

"You are a shield-maid?" Éowyn asked, her eyes growing wide with shock. "I never would have thought it!"

Lothíriel chuckled at that idea. "Hardly. My brothers' sword-master taught me a few things, so I might defend myself at need, but I could never ride into battle. Still, I can't help wondering – I wear the same ring. I am my father's child, just as my brothers are. The same blood that runs through their veins nurtures my limbs as well. I always thought myself their equal, in heart if not in body." She frowned. "But I do not _know_ , truly. I count you lucky, Éowyn. They say that if the Hosts fail we must flee the city and make our way to the secret places in the White Mountains. You have already fought back your foe in battle. You know your heart is true. But as for me... if we are beat back into the wilds, what part can I play? I do not know. I tell myself I will meet the test, sometimes I have myself half-convinced, but I do not _know._ And that gnaws at me."

Éowyn looked at her almost tenderly, then, and she reached out and grasped Lothíriel's hands in her own. "You have the heart of a shield-maiden, even if you lack the training. You may yet surprise yourself, if things come to that." She paused, as if unsure whether she should say what thought came to her next. Lothíriel nodded at her, encouraging her to go on. At last Éowyn added, "But I still envy you your bed outside these houses. I would like to go beyond my paddock, if only for a little while." She blushed suddenly. "Gríma was right in this at least. Sometimes it _does_ seem as if the walls of my bower are closing all about me. I wonder that I am not crushed beneath their weight."

That fear cut Lothíriel to the quick, for it was all too similar to her own dark thoughts. "Perhaps you can get out," she said. "Would you come to my townhouse for tea, if I could arrange it?"

The thought of Éowyn in a fashionable parlour, sipping from a dainty cup, reminded Lothíriel of the tea-parties she had subjected Amrothos to as a child. She could not quite keep herself from laughing at that memory. Éowyn cocked an eyebrow at that. "You mock me," she said. "Or do you simply want to make me over into your idea of a high-born lady? I am not a child's doll that you can pose as you choose."

"Small hope of that!" She squeezed Éowyn's hands jovially. "I am no fool, Éowyn, and I would never push you against your nature. No, I only thought of my brother at 'tea'. I'm sure Elphir put him up to it. The fact that Amrothos – all arms and legs – could barely fold himself into the chair did nothing to stop my fun."

Éowyn nodded at the explanation. "I used to put Éomer through something similar, when we were younger. I know for a fact Théodred bribed him." She smiled at the memory. "He was so proud of his new riding gloves. If only his friends knew what he had done to get them." Lothíriel was glad to see her happy, but as always the good mood did not last long. Almost as soon as she was done speaking, Éowyn's smile faded, and she looked longingly out her window. "I would dearly like to get outside these walls," she said. "Even if only for an hour. Will the Warden really let me go, do you think?"

"I can make no promises," Lothíriel said, "but I will speak to him. A change in attitude would not hurt your cause, either. If you lie about all day sighing pitifully to yourself, he may think you still too weak."

Éowyn looked at the room around her and wrinkled her nose. "There is little here to tempt me out of bed," she said. "And the others annoy me beyond endurance. But I will try."

"You may be as frustrated as you like, so long as you don't show it so brazenly," Lothíriel said. "Discretion is the better part of valor, as we say. Does the thought hold true in Rohan?"

Éowyn snorted at that. "You ask one named _Dernhelm_ about the value of discretion? Very well; you will try, and I will try, too."

**Author's Note:**

> "Great perils have this beauty, that they bring to light the fraternity of strangers." (Victor Hugo)


End file.
